The Closet: Alternate Endings
by Kelslyn
Summary: The title kinda says it all. These are the alternate endings for my story 'The Closet'.
1. He Chooses His Detective

A/N I know it took me a while but here are the promised alternate endings. –Lyn

He Picks Sherlock

John sat on the couch and thought about the situation he was in. Moriarty had kidnapped him, raped him, and tortured him. And John had thought that Moriarty cared for him…. God, how could he have been so blind? Stockholm Syndrome wasn't something he had expected to experience, that may be why it took him so long to see what it had done to him. But when he thought about how Moriarty was gone, and how even with all the crap that John had put him through Sherlock was there, ready to pick up the pieces all over again.

"So you've made your decision then?" Sherlock asked, well, said really as he already knew the answer. John nodded unnecessarily and he looked down at his shoes and clasped his hands together.

"If… uh… if you'd still let me stay." He said softly. He knew that he didn't deserve to stay but… a tiny, tiny part of him still hoped that he would get a second chance. Sherlock plucked a tune out on his violin and that was the only sound in the flat, silence stretching out all around them but the violin tearing down the silence between them in a not-so-unpleasant-way. "Alright… I get it. I'll leave." John said as he stood. He was sad, he had picked Sherlock… but had he picked wrong?

"What makes you think I want you to leave?" Sherlock asked in a mild tone. John looked at him curiously.

"Well you didn't say anything so I assumed that was my cue to leave."

"No, that was your cue to go and get more milk. I used the rest of it on my last experiment." John smiled and shook his head at his flatmate.

"Alright Sherlock, alright. I'll go and get more milk." John said, still smiling that ridiculous smile. He was just so happy that Sherlock had picked up the pieces again.

"John, I'll always pick up your pieces. Just like you picked up mine. That's what friends are for after all." Sherlock commented easily, still plucking at his violin.

"How did you-?"

"I deduced it. Obviously."

"Of course." He zipped up his jacket and opened the door.

"Oh, and John?"

"Yes?"

"Try not to get into any rows with the machines okay?" John threw him one last smile before nodding and heading out the door, closing it behind him and walking down the stairs to the street. He hit the sidewalk and merged into the rest of the foot traffic with that grin still on his face.

Everything was as it should be.


	2. He Doesn't Get the Chance to Choose

He Doesn't Get the Chance to Make His Choice

Moriarty came back, weary and broken. He entered the flat and sat down where John always sat, acutely aware of the absence of its owner. He hung his head in his hands and Sherlock looked up from where he was sitting on the couch.

"So you've given up have you?" Sherlock asked. Moriarty slowly shook his head.

"I just wanted to see if he had come back." His voice was cracked and he sounded bone-tired.

"I can tell you where he is." Sherlock commented smoothly. Moriarty's head snapped up and he stared at the consulting detective.

"What? Where is he?" He demanded.

"Well," Sherlock glanced at his watch. ", approximately 17 minutes ago he left Sarah's on his way back here. So I'd assume he's in the street right now walking over-" Sherlock was cut off and they both looked at the window as they heard the squeal of tires, several screams and Mrs. Hudson yelling for them to come downstairs. They glanced at each other before launching down the stairs to see what was wrong. The front door was open so they went out and saw Mrs. Hudson sitting on the curb with something in her arms, people around her on their mobiles. They assumed at least one of them was calling for Scotland Yard. Mrs. Hudson was sobbing and Sherlock stopped. He knew. Moriarty knelt next to her and took the precious thing from her. Someone was apologizing. They hadn't seen him. They hit him with their car as he was crossing the road to the apartment. In his arms Moriarty cradled John's lifeless body.

That night Sherlock shook on his floor, convulsions shaking his body uncontrollably. His eyes were glazed and he had nicotine patches up both arms, on his neck and bare chest. His shirt was chucked off, on the edge of the bed. He tried to get the next needle to his vein but he was shaking too hard. He dropped the needle and it rolled a foot or so away, clinking with about a half a dozen empty needles and three empty bags that used to contain cocaine. Sherlock had overdosed. Trying to forget, he had overdosed. A few minute later, he fell still.

On the roof of the clinic John had worked at Moriarty sat and listened to 'Stayin' Alive' by the Bee Gees. He held a gun in one hand and with the other shifted his phone from his thigh to the concrete next to his leg. He brought the gun up to his mouth, placing it inside. The cold metal helped to sooth the racing heat the burned through him and he closed his eyes. He had called Sebastian, telling him there would be a clean-up on that roof. But he hadn't told him who it was he would be scraping off the roof. Moriarty found it slightly difficult to hold the pistol still as he was crying. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks and dripped off his chin into his lap. Moriarty decided his gun positioning wasn't right and held it in front of his chest on the left side, right in front of his heart. He heard the door open behind him and Seb say,

"What the hell Moriarty…" Moriarty pulled the trigger, ignited a spark, caused a small explosion with the gun powder, forced the bullet out of the barrel of the gun, into his chest, tore through muscles and sinews and tendons, past his ribcage and straight into his heart. Sebastian stood in shock for a second before looking at what Moriarty had pulled up on his phone. He turned off the music and saw he was rereading the texts between Moriarty and John.

"Shot through the heart and you're to blame." Sebastian muttered, not even cracking a smirk at his own grim humor as he scrapped bits of said organ off the concrete.


End file.
